


Lemon & Cinnamon

by coffee_deer



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_deer/pseuds/coffee_deer
Summary: "‘Oh, would you like some tea, darling?’ Missy exclaims, suddenly remembering, trying to catch the tail of the slipping thought, and she isn’t even bothered by the lack of tea cups, tea pot, or tea itself in the visible space around them."Written before series 9 came out, so the dynamics between the two is a bit alternative compared to the show.To everyone who's ever wondered how Missy met Clara in the first place - some musings on the subject.





	Lemon & Cinnamon

There are sharp needles in her eyes, ice crumbs, the word “Eternity” broken into pieces, syllables, letters. E-t-e-r-n-i-t-y. What does she know of eternity, an ordinary Earth girl—she won’t ever understand nor stand beside as an equal to those in whose veins not only blood is running but time itself. And yet, it is easier to explain to her; she has lived so many lives… Not that Missy has ever been good at explanations. She never has. He never. Ah, what does it matter?

He has, she has, on the other hand, always been good at tatting the lace of puzzles and mysteries, the one that the Doctor would like to unravel. But come on, how does it always end? All the efforts down the drain, the ungrateful silly Doctor!

He is grateful this time, though, not that he will ever admit it. Not for the army—this brilliant idea went to the hell tea party as they usually do. But for _her_.

‘Oh, would you like some tea, darling?’ Missy exclaims, suddenly remembering, trying to catch the tail of the slipping thought, and she isn’t even bothered by the lack of tea cups, tea pot, or tea itself in the visible space around them. Well, so what, these are only details, insignificant trifles! But the gaze powdered by ice dust is all she gets in return, and somewhere deep inside these eyes dark flames of much stronger distaste blaze, poorly hidden. Not hatred, of course not! Missy puffs her lips out as a child would sincerely hurt for a moment by that ridiculous assumption voiced only in her head— and thus makes Clara frown in confusion. Her girl could never ever hate her! Missy has chosen her so well.

Though, in a matter of fact, she hasn’t. Spontaneity is a perfect companion of insanity and insanity she does have in full under her up-do and stylish hat.

A perfect companion, oh yes. Like that one, the human one, the big-eyed one, in this tasteless polka-dot dress.

Missy was walking to and fro in that unblest little shop, you know, just to and fro, and the time was not even important, and the place was in no way notable, and she didn’t really have any plans. She thought—maybe she should kill someone, just out of sheer boredom? To stick her umbrella into an eye of a rude assistant and crank it further, and again, smiling to the shrieks of panic around her, a fountain of hot blood falling in droplets on her face…

But sometimes fate just knows best. The assistant proved herself to be utterly polite, trained no worse than a royal footman, and Missy glared at her, thinking if it was worthy to kill her for the ruined hopes instead when she suddenly heard that glib lively voice.

'No, thank you very much, I know exactly what I need,’ and a disappointed piranha, one of consultant subspecies, moves away, twists her mouth in displeasure. Missy, however, clicks her tongue interestedly and smoothly pushes herself away from the counter, to the assistant’s great relief—and it would have been much greater if only the girl could know how lucky she really was today.

Missy couldn’t tell for sure what had caught her attention—you may call it _flair_. Just a shorty-birdie, kind of bossy—but with a soft aura about her; her movements abrupt and jerky—and suddenly slow as if in contemplation. She reaches for a shelf, but trill rings out of her coral bag, and Missy uses this dozen of seconds hold-back to her own advantage, so she could walk past the birdie, oh, so close in a broad passageway, could let her hand and coarse fabric of the sleeve slide lightly along her back, and then—she definitely could and does smell and taste the scent of her hair: lemon and cinnamon, both homey and spicy at the same time.

Just what the doctor ordered. Except that Missy wasn’t the one in need for the prescription.

It is not in her habits to keep _pets_ , but she knows exactly, has always known, who is fond of turning his TARDIS into a zoo or an animal shelter.

So Missy decides to give him… a kitten. A birdie. Of rare species, her flair has never let her down. Someone who would become the unique specimen in this short-lived collection of his. The best one—and nothing less because it is hatefully boring to think otherwise.

The best one. So she’d rather have a proof this time to make sure that her marvellous nose has made no mistake.

She thought back then, she was preparing in such a manner only an accessory surprise—just a sweet-smelling birdie, even if special in some way. Not special enough, when in plans for a week is infiltration of the conception of eternal life on one tiny-winy mossy planet. Hardly any problem could occur: it’s always comforting to know beforehand that you did the job well, besides… the army, you know! The whole army, Doctor! The enormous, countless army for all your good deeds and righteous purposes, how can you even resist?

And the birdie will make a sweet cherry on top of the huge cake.

'Maybe you want some cake, sweetie?’ Missy coos fondly, all of a sudden diving out of the unresting sea of her thoughts, and in Clara’s eyes—all the shades of " _seriously?_ ”. Very pricking and unkind they are, these eyes that dislike her so much. Missy shrugs theatrically, as if “as you wish, though I must admit, the cake is most delicious here today”. The strawberry one, by the way. With a cherry on top.

The other Missy, Missy-from-the-past, is leaving the shop in her memories at this point, just to make a brief tournée for a couple of decades and then enter the very same doors only a minute later. Upon her return, she knows a great deal more about Clara Oswald than just the scent of her hair and, it appears, a little less than knows the Doctor whom she has spotted several times during her tour. It is irritating—to know less—but it can wait.

After all, Missy has understood the most important thing. If the Doctor is interested in Clara, if she has caught his attention to the degree when he feels the need to dig in her past… No, really, how pleasant is that—knowing that you are definitely going to succeed! Have already succeeded. Are succeeding right now.

Standing in a small queue by the counter, Clara flinches a little when, as if out of nowhere, from behind her shoulder, this strange woman appears. Not too strange, no, just extravagant in style. This smile of hers, in the eyes and on the lips, suggests a hint of condescension: not from higher social level, but as if from an adult to a child, to a silly little thing. And the woman is older than her for sure, but Clara is no child. Unconsciously isolating herself, she folds her arms, shuts the undesired presence out and makes a step away, but the woman makes a step forward and, with a graceful gesture of a conjurer getting an ace out of thin air, pulls out a sheet of paper, folded in two. She holds it with two fingers, unambiguously offering it to Clara.

'Please, _forgive_ my intrusion! It may sound rude, but I’ve unintentionally happened to overhear your conversation, on the phone, about faulty Internet connection. You know,’ Missy places the other palm against her chest and, lowering her voice, continues, 'I _hardly_ understand anything about technology and all that myself, but I’ve _always_ got help in a  _wonderful_ place. It’s their telephone number, please, take it.’

Clara looks with suspicion, but courtesy eventually wins—or the words about technology have echoed with sympathy in her heart. One way or the other it may be, but she takes the paper, if only reluctantly; looks closer at the ink numbers. Clarifies:

'A helpline?’

And Missy laughs at the joke that the birdie can’t yet possibly share.

'Oh yes, dear, _the best one!_ The best in the Universe!’

Clara Oswald smiles politely and thanks, putting the paper into her pocket. Missy smiles too, a little bit predatory. The birdie has fallen into a trap. Now she can have some tea.

'Tea!’ memories of the past have woken up desires of the present. 'Why can’t we have some tea? I do want a cup of tea!’

Clara is not even surprised anymore, just looks suspiciously when Missy catches a passing waiter by his apron.

'No need to look so alarmed,’ Missy reassures her, still holding black fabric firmly, 'I’m not going to eat him.’

Clara snorts aside and Missy orders a pot of tea—with lemon and cinnamon. And two cups, sure, please. Thank you.

They are drinking their tea in silence, for a long while. Clara’s cup is already empty, her fingers are tapping nervously on the fine china.

'Don’t worry,’ Missy drawls. 'He is just late, always late. It’s not like he would leave you to me.’

Unlikely. What a shame…

'I’m not worried.’

Unlikely. What a shame. Though, of course, she lies.

Tea is almost finished in Missy’s cup too. She only plays for time, playing with the last sips. The same tune is going on and on in her head, “Oh, talktome, talktome, talktomepleeeeeease”. She hopes she doesn’t say it out loud. She hopes it’s just because she’s bored, but still… why is her girl so silent?

At last, ice breaks a bit. Fingers stop tapping unknown rhythm against the tea cup. Clara lifts her gaze.

'Why did you write his number for me, back then? Why gave it to me?’

Missy’s grin is so wide and pleased as if she has actually eaten that poor waiter, moreover, with cranberry sauce. That was a question worth of kidnapping her.

'Because you resemble, a lot,’ she answers with satisfaction.

'The Doctor?’ not a question exactly, really, more of a statement; funny, funny birdie.

Missy grins even wider, then moves forward, bending over the table to the extent where her nose is hardly further from Clara’s face than a couple of inches. She mouths:

' _Me_ ’.

Time hangs and dissolves in the warm air of the sunny day; in Clara’s eyes—shock and rejection of the truth.

_But._

She doesn’t move away.

Missy celebrates it by drinking the last sip of the lemon and cinnamon tea. And, naturally, repeats the order.


End file.
